Initially, he wanted to be a pilot
by Ariane DeVere
Summary: A Cabin Pressure/Sherlock crossover. Martin Crieff wakes up in hospital, unable to remember how he got there. When he is told that his entire life is a lie, should he believe it? And who can help him find out the truth?
1. Chapter 1

**Betas, advisors and general hand-holders**: Verity Burns and Mirith Griffin

A Cabin Pressure/Sherlock crossover with a twist. Friendship. Hurt/Comfort. Psychological trauma. All is not what it seems. Lots of 'ooh!' moments if you know your _Cabin Pressure_ and your _Sherlock_.

Warnings: Angst, emotional distress, psychological issues, hopefully some humour too; attempted assisted suicide in later chapter, violence in later chapter

Disclaimer: I have tried to keep all references to psychological conditions and treatment as non-specific as possible. I did do some research and also took advice from friends, but I didn't look into the condition which Martin is apparently suffering or its treatment in depth, and I basically murder correct medical protocol for the sake of the story. I've deliberately kept the medical bits to a minimum but if you get angry with fic that isn't a hundred per cent medically accurate and if you object to poor and incorrect treatment of someone with psychological issues, maybe you'd better avoid this story ...

This story is complete, but will be posted in three chapters every few days. Because I iz evil. And because cliffhangers are fun (when you're not the one who has to read them. *snigger*).

**Initially, he wanted to be a pilot**

_**(Please heed warnings and disclaimer above.)**_

**Chapter 1**

"... your eyes please. Come on, open your eyes for me."

The gentle but insistent voice became clearer and Martin struggled to obey. His eyes were heavy and he felt exhausted even trying, but gradually he managed to force them open. The middle-aged man with white hair who was leaning over him smiled encouragingly.

"That's right, well done. Look at me."

Martin blinked several times, feeling a stab of fear as he saw that the man was wearing a white coat and had a stethoscope around his neck. The man – the doctor – straightened up and nodded approvingly, still smiling at him.

"It's all right," he said soothingly. "You're safe. You're in a hospital, but you're okay. I'm going to raise the bed a little."

He picked up a control and pressed a button, and the top half of the bed lifted several inches. As he was raised into more of a sitting position Martin looked anxiously around the room. It contained two armchairs, a couple of cabinets and a wardrobe, and an open door near the bed revealed a small en suite bathroom. The window looked out onto a large lawned garden with several flower beds and the area was surrounded by trees. Clearly this was a hospital room but it immediately radiated an aura of expensiveness and exclusivity, and did nothing to allay Martin's fears. A uniformed female nurse on the other side of the bed smiled down at him, and a man wearing a suit was standing near the door. Martin looked down and saw that he was wearing hospital pyjamas. A drip had been inserted into the back of his left hand and several leads were stuck onto his chest, presumably monitoring his heart rate. He screwed up his eyes for a moment, trying to remember what could have brought him here.

"You're perfectly safe," the man beside the bed told him again. "You're in St Margaret's Hospital in Peterborough. I'm Doctor Shelton."

"How ..." Martin tried to speak but his voice came out in a whisper. He swallowed. "How did I get here? Why Peterborough?"

"Try not to worry," Shelton told him. "You may be suffering from some memory loss but that'll come back to you in time. I need to ask you some simple questions – is that all right?"

Martin nodded, still trying to recall what could have happened for him to end up here.

"Can you tell me your name?" Shelton asked.

"Mar-Martin Crieff," Martin said, automatically adding, "_Captain_ Martin Crieff."

Shelton nodded, briefly glancing across to the man near the door. "Is that your full name?"

"Martin Richard Crieff."

"What's your date of birth?"

"Seventh of July nineteen seventy-five."

"And your home address?"

"Twenty-five Parkside Terrace, Fitton," Martin said. "How did I get here?"

"I assure you, Martin, we'll answer your questions shortly," Shelton said. "What's your phone number?"

Martin related his mobile number. At the door, the other man took a notebook from his jacket pocket and began writing in it.

"Who's your next of kin?" asked Shelton.

Martin stared at him. The doctor smiled reassuringly.

"It's just a question. I promise you, you're in no danger."

"Oh. Um, Wendy Crieff, my mother. She lives in Wokingham. Her number's on my phone."

"Can you tell me where you work?"

"I'm an airline captain – I work for MJN Air, based at Fitton Airfield."

Shelton nodded. "All right. Answer me a couple of general questions, please," he said. "These are just to test your memory recall. Where does the Queen live?"

"Buckingham Palace," Martin said bemusedly.

"Who lives at number ten Downing Street?"

"The Prime Minister."

"And who's the current Prime Minister?"

Martin opened his mouth, then frowned. "I ... I don't remember," he said. He was looking at the doctor as he spoke but from the corner of his eye it seemed as if the other man nodded and smiled a little. By the time Martin turned his head, the man's face was straight again and he didn't look up as he continued writing.

Martin turned back to Doctor Shelton. "Please tell me what's happened," he said anxiously. "Was there an accident? I don't remember how I got here."

"You were found in a state of distress and an ambulance was called," Shelton told him. "You were taken to a nearby hospital, and after evaluation you were referred here."

"Where was I?" Martin asked, widening his eyes as a horrific thought struck him. "Oh, God, was it at the airfield? Was I on the plane at the time?"

"Martin, you need to stay calm," Shelton said as Martin began to breathe erratically. "You weren't on a plane, I promise you." He glanced at the man at the door again. "You weren't with any of your friends or family when it happened."

"Why can't I remember?" Martin asked, beginning to panic.

"You have had what is known as a 'brief reactive psychosis'," Doctor Shelton told him gently. "It's a mental condition often brought on by extreme stress. Memory loss is not unusual in such circumstances, but I'm confident that it will return in time."

"I've had a nervous breakdown, haven't I?" Martin said frantically. "Oh God – they'll never let me fly again ..."

"A brief reactive psychosis is _not_ the same as a mental breakdown," Shelton said. "What you have undergone is a little more complicated, but it _can_ be treated and I have every confidence that in time you will be fit and well and able to return to work."

"I need to phone my mum," Martin said. "She'll be worried about me."

"I'm afraid we can't allow that at present," Shelton said. "During the first stage of your treatment we'll be putting you on a course of antipsychotic drugs. They will make you rather drowsy and confused at times, and it's best for you that you don't have contact with anyone other than your medical staff. However, I can assure you that your family are aware of what has happened ..." again he glanced across to the man in the suit, "... and they have been reassured that you are in no danger. We'll keep them updated on a regular basis."

Martin stared at him as the truth began to dawn. "I've been sectioned, haven't I?" he asked quietly.

"You have been detained under the Mental Health Act, yes," Shelton said. "When you were found you were in a very confused and bewildered state. After assessment and consultation, it was decided that you should be detained for your own safety and so that we can make a proper determination of the best way to treat you. One of our administrators will visit you in the next couple of days to explain your rights to you, and they'll give you some paperwork that provides more information."

He finally introduced the man who had been standing silently at the door. "This is Mr. ... Mr. Gregory," he said. "Mr. Gregory is what is known as your responsible clinician. He is a ... a psychologist who will be assisting with your treatment."

Martin didn't have a lot of talent at reading body language, but even he could tell that Doctor Shelton was nervous in front of the man who now stepped forward. Martin wasn't exactly surprised – the small smile that Mr. Gregory produced was tight and rather intimidating, and the doctor wilted under the man's gaze.

"Thank you, Doctor Shelton," Mr. Gregory said quietly, and even Martin felt a little anxious for the doctor as he backed away from the bedside, his eyes lowered. The smile that the psychologist then turned on Martin seemed more genuine, albeit no more reassuring. He didn't often take an instant dislike to people, but there was something about this man which gave him an immediate sense of resentment.

"Hello, Mr. Crieff," Mr. Gregory said.

"That's _Captain_ Crieff," Martin snapped.

Mr. Gregory seemed unfazed. "Perhaps it would be easier if I call you Martin?" he said smoothly.

"Do I get to call you by _your_ first name?" Martin asked, surprised at his irritable tone.

"No," Mr. Gregory said softly, and Martin's instinctive desire to argue with the man dissolved under the psychologist's steady gaze. He tried to continue to meet his eyes but eventually looked away. He could understand why Doctor Shelton was afraid of him. Something about Mr. Gregory hinted at great power and Martin felt that if he wanted to, he could keep him in this hospital forever.

"As Doctor Shelton has explained, you will be placed on a course of drug treatment for a while to assist your psychological recovery," Mr. Gregory continued. "After that, we will commence one-to-one counselling on a regular basis."

He gave Martin another non-reassuring smile. "We'll be seeing a lot of each other in the next few weeks," he told him.

Already Martin felt that he would be happy never to see the man again.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Martin wasn't allowed out of his room for the next eight days but had a stream of visitors from amongst the hospital staff. An administrator came in on a couple of occasions, explaining his condition to him again and – as promised – giving him information about his rights, which didn't seem to amount to anything useful as far as Martin could tell. She also asked him many questions about his work, his family and friends, took all their contact details and reassured him that they would be kept notified of his progress.

Doctor Shelton visited once a day to check Martin's condition and to modify the drugs which he was now able to take orally, which meant that the drip was removed from his hand. Nurses came in and out of the room frequently to do regular check-ups, to wash him and administer his medication and generally to take care of him. All three of them – Daniel, Lacey and Narinda – were friendly and pleasant, and Lacey in particular was always very chatty and giggly. Another regular visitor was an orderly who cleaned the room, replenished the plastic jugs of drinking water, and brought in cups of tea and coffee and his meals. Martin felt safe with all of the staff although he occasionally became concerned that perhaps the drug treatment was lulling him into a false sense of security.

On the sixth day he felt strong enough to get out of bed for the first time when Narinda and Daniel offered to help him. He found his balance shockingly poor – a side effect of the drugs, Daniel explained – but the nurses helped him to the bathroom and diplomatically stood back while Martin used the toilet and washed his hands. Looking up as he shook the water off his hands, he frowned as he realised that there was no mirror above the sink. Handing him a towel, Narinda answered his question before he even asked.

"We don't allow patients access to anything that can be made sharp for their first few weeks here," she said, "for reasons that I'm sure are obvious. It's also why you're supervised when you're eating, and why your water glass and jug are plastic. And that's why we've been doing your shaving for you every morning. If you can manage with an electric shaver and no mirror, I'm happy for you to do it yourself, but I'm afraid we can't let you have a mirror for a while yet."

Daniel smiled at him. "It's not that we don't trust you, Martin," he said. "It's just that ... well, we don't trust you – not yet anyway!"

Martin nodded. He could understand the staff's reasons for cautiousness so early in his treatment, but wished his mind didn't feel so foggy so that he could explain convincingly that he had no intention of doing himself any harm.

As Narinda took the towel and hung it up, Daniel offered him an arm. "How about sitting in the armchair instead of getting back into bed?" he suggested. "D'you feel up to it?"

"Yes please," Martin said and the nurses supported him as he walked slowly to the armchair. Narinda helped him into a dressing gown and some slippers and he sat down carefully, glad to be out of the bed for a while.

"If you're feeling tired and want to go back to bed, or if you need the loo again, push the button," Narinda told him as she handed him the call button. "_Don't_ try standing up on your own," she added sternly before she and Daniel left.

Martin was pleased to be sitting up properly, and the armchair gave him a better view of the pretty gardens outside the window. He gazed at the view while he fretted about what had happened to him – and _why_, and whether his family and friends were worried. The administrator, Miss Kelly, had been in earlier and told him that Mr. Gregory would start his therapy the following morning. Martin wasn't sure whether he was looking forward to finding out more about what had caused his collapse, or whether it would only make him feel worse. He had a horrible feeling that this might take a very long time; and despite Doctor Shelton's reassurances, he was very afraid that he might never be cleared to fly an aeroplane again.

He was still lost in thought when there was a knock on the door and the orderly came in. Martin smiled when he saw him. All the staff were nice but when Jack was in the room Martin somehow felt better. He had taken an instant liking to him, although he didn't know why specifically. Did he remind him of an old friend, maybe someone from school? He couldn't seem to dredge up any memories of his school friends, and the more he tried the more tired it made him feel. But anyway, there was something about Jack's dark blue eyes, his sandy greying hair and his warm smile – and especially his cheerful giggle – that made Martin less afraid of the future.

"Good morning... oh!" Jack said in surprise at seeing him out of bed. "Hullo! Feeling better?"

"Daniel and Narinda suggested I sit out for a while," Martin told him.

"That's a good sign," Jack said with a grin. "Right, let's get this room clean, shall we? Do you need any water?" He checked the jug on the bedside cabinet. "No, it's still full." He frowned. "_Why_ is it still full? You should drink more water – it's good for you."

He filled the plastic glass and held it out with what was obviously only a pretend stern look but Martin meekly took the glass and sipped from it, feeling strangely content when Jack nodded approvingly.

While he continued drinking, Jack got on with wiping down all the surfaces and then started to mop the floor. He had almost reached Martin's chair when Lacey came in wheeling a small trolley.

"Hullo, boys," she said, then turned to Jack. "I'm here to do Martin's ten o'clock check-up. Can you work around me?"

"Not really," Jack grumbled, though his eyes crinkled in a suppressed smile. "You're heading for the one bit of floor I haven't cleaned."

"Then I won't make your beautiful handiwork dirty," she said serenely, wheeling her trolley over to Martin's side and clipping a pulse oximeter to the index finger which he had already obediently raised.

Jack sighed over-dramatically and turned to squeeze out his mop into the nearby bucket while Lacey wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Martin's arm. "In your own time," he said with a false air of weary resignation.

"But quite quickly," Martin added instantly.

Immediately he was appalled at how rude he had sounded. He hadn't smiled as he spoke and for some reason his voice had dropped to a lower tone which made him sound even worse. Just as he was about to apologise to Lacey, Jack let out a brief explosive noise which sounded almost like a sob. However, when he turned around a couple of seconds later he was smiling and didn't seem upset by Martin's rudeness. Nevertheless, Martin instantly looked round at Lacey.

"Sorry," he said to her. "That wasn't very good, was it?"

"A _bit_ not good, yeah," Jack agreed.

Even as Lacey smiled forgivingly, Martin felt bolts of pain shoot through his head. Grimacing, he realised that it felt like a door slamming inside his mind ... no, it was more like a door bursting _open_ and crashing against the wall behind it before bouncing back with the recoil and noisily shutting again. It left a dull ache in his head and a sense of unease that he didn't understand. It was a long time before the feeling went away.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"This is a private hospital, isn't it?" Martin asked when Mr. Gregory arrived in his room the next morning.

"What makes you ask that?" Mr. Gregory replied.

"I've been in NHS hospitals before, especially while Dad ..." he swallowed hard, "... was dying. I've not been in a psychiatric hospital before but this has got far too much expensive equipment in it to be National Health. The staff are better dressed than I've seen in hospitals before, and even the bedding's better quality. Plus the food's actually quite nice."

Mr. Gregory smiled briefly. "That's a very good deduction," he said.

Martin's eyes widened. "Is Theresa paying for this?" he asked.

Mr. Gregory tilted his head. "Who is Theresa?"

A little embarrassed, Martin replied, "Theresa of Liechtenstein."

"You make her sound like royalty," Mr. Gregory said in a bemused tone.

Martin cringed a little. "Um, yes, she is."

Mr. Gregory looked at him closely. "Are you suggesting that this 'Theresa' is a member of the Royal family of Liechtenstein?"

Martin nodded.

"Martin, for reasons it would take too long to explain, I know the names of _all_ Royal families in Europe," Mr. Gregory told him. "Trust me when I tell you, there is no princess called Theresa in Liechtenstein."

"Of course there is!" Martin exclaimed, forgetting his embarrassment. "Her full title is Her Serene Highness Princess Theresa Gustava Bonaventura of Liechtenstein. She's the Countess of Sponheim and Protector Extraordinary of the Cantons of Nîmes! King Maximilian is her little brother!"

"_King_ Maximilian? Liechtenstein is a Principality. It doesn't _have_ a king; it has a crown prince, and his name is Hans-Adam. He has a _son_ by that name, but Maximilian is forty-four years old."

"No!" Martin said vehemently. "Maxi's only a young boy. And he's the king! He _told_ us he was the king – repeatedly!"

"Martin, I can assure you – there is no king of Liechtenstein; and no princess called Theresa either."

"But I kissed her!" Martin said loudly. "I kissed her on our third date, outside Croydon Airport Visitors' Centre!"

"You ..." Mr. Gregory looked at him seriously. "Really, Martin – you kissed a princess at Croydon Airport? Does that sound even _remotely_ likely?"

Martin stared at him wide-eyed. Mr. Gregory returned his gaze for a long moment, then walked over to the other armchair and sat in it, clasping his hands in his lap.

"I considered it too early to begin this phase of your counselling," he said, "but in light of this conversation it seems appropriate to commence now. Let me explain again what a brief reactive psychosis is. It can be triggered by immense stress and it causes such symptoms as delusions and hallucinations. The exact cause of the stress which led to your psychosis is currently unknown to you because of your memory loss, but hopefully in time you will remember."

He cleared his throat and looked at Martin with a calm but determined expression. "We have investigated thoroughly with the Registrar of Births, Marriages and Deaths, and with the National Census. I have to tell you that there is no record of a Martin Crieff."

He paused for a few seconds while Martin gazed at him blankly. "Furthermore," he continued, "there is no record of Wendy Crieff, nor of Simon or Caitlin Crieff. And neither can we trace Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, Arthur Shappey or Douglas Richardson."

Martin shook his head. "That's ridiculous," he began.

"We therefore deduce that the stressful event that you have undergone and its resultant psychosis have caused you to adopt a new personality together with a group of family and friends," Mr. Gregory told him.

"No," Martin said, still shaking his head.

"Companies House has no record of an air charter service named MJN Air," Mr. Gregory continued relentlessly.

"No," Martin insisted. "This is ridiculous. Why are you saying these things? Who _are_ you? Why are you doing this?"

"Everything I have just told you is true," Mr. Gregory said.

"I don't believe you," Martin said firmly.

"I know you don't," Mr. Gregory said. "It is my job to convince you. So, let's pick someone. Do you remember Douglas' phone number?"

"Of course I do," Martin said.

Mr. Gregory took a mobile phone from his jacket pocket, then stood up and walked across the room. "Call his number," he suggested, holding the phone out.

Martin took it, trying to stop his hands from shaking as he tapped out Douglas' mobile number. Instantly the screen showed, 'Number unobtainable'. He tried a second time but received the same message. He stared up at Mr. Gregory.

"Try Directory Enquiries for his landline number," the psychologist advised. "Pick any service you want."

For a moment Martin couldn't remember any of the various services which ran a phone number search but eventually he dredged one up from his memory and rang it. When they answered he gave Douglas' name, address and postcode. There was a long silence as the advisor searched his computer but he finally came back on the line.

"I'm sorry, but I can't find anything under that name and address," he said. "Can I just check – did you say 'Fitton' ..." he spelled out the name, "... and the postcode Foxtrot November twenty-three, four Romeo Delta?"

"That's right," Martin replied.

"Please hold," the advisor said and began typing again. Martin tried to control his anxious breathing, and finally the advisor spoke.

"Sir, I can't even find a town called Fitton on the system. Are you sure you don't mean Filton?"

"No!" Martin said loudly. "That's a different town. This has Tango Tango in the middle, not Lima Tango."

There was another short silence.

"Sorry," the man said. "I can't find it."

"Thank you," Martin said numbly and hung up. Mr. Gregory looked at him sympathetically.

"Do you want to try Carolyn's home telephone or the office of MJN? Or perhaps your brother's work number?" he asked.

"This isn't possible," Martin said frantically. "You must have done something to the phone. That wasn't the real Directory Enquiries."

"Yes, it was," Mr. Gregory said. "As I said, it will take time for you to believe me."

He went to the door, tapping on it. An elegantly dressed woman opened it, holding a briefcase.

"Laptop, please," Mr. Gregory told her. She extracted an expensive looking device and handed it to him. Closing the door, Mr. Gregory walked over to Martin's chair and handed him the computer. "Look up whatever you wish," he told him.

Opening the lid, Martin looked anxiously at the psychologist as he waited for the computer to boot up. Mr. Gregory gave him one of his not-reassuring smiles.

"I can't tamper with the entire internet," he said and then sat back down in the other armchair so that he couldn't see the computer screen.

Martin went online and typed in MJN's website address. When the address dropped out as an unfound site, he almost wanted to shove the laptop onto the floor in terror but he steeled himself and sought out a search engine, deciding not to go with the obvious ones and randomly selecting instead. Typing 'MJN Air' produced no results. Neither did 'Fitton Airfield'.

"Martin ..." Mr. Gregory began.

"Shut up," Martin said angrily, keeping his eyes lowered as he blinked back tears of panic. He switched to a different search engine and tried 'Fitton', again with no result, then pulled up two different online maps of the Midlands and zoomed in to the appropriate area on each. He stared numbly at the maps for a very long time, unable to comprehend why there was no sign of Fitton or its airfield on either map. At this point he almost _wanted_ Mr. Gregory to say something so that he could shout at him but the man remained patiently silent.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he considered searching for information about the Liechtenstein Royal family but he began to tremble so much that he didn't think he would be able to type. Reluctantly he put the laptop onto the bed and then looked across the room to Mr. Gregory.

"You're telling me that my mum doesn't exist," he said, his eyes burning at the very thought. "I _remember_ her. I remember Simon and Caitlin. I remember my dad's funeral! Mum gave me his signet ring." He brandished his hand and the ring at the other man. "He left me his van – I run a removals service when I'm not working for MJN."

Briefly he considered looking at the online Yellow Pages for Icarus Removals, but he didn't dare. "How can Fitton not exist?" he continued. "I _live_ there! How can _MJN_ not exist? You're saying that my friends aren't real either." He let out a shaky laugh. "Next thing you'll be telling me I'm not actually a pilot."

"_Are_ you a pilot?" Mr. Gregory asked him. "Take a look at your left thumb and tell me."

Martin lifted his thumb and stared at it, but this told him nothing. Inside his head, however, he felt more crashing from an unseen door slamming against the wall behind it and then banging shut. Grimacing against the pain he lowered his hand and looked across to the psychologist, who shrugged in what seemed to be a resigned manner.

"Talk me through how to fly an aeroplane," Mr. Gregory said. "Tell me, for instance, about the pre-flight checks. How do you check fuel levels?"

Martin opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come. He _knew_ he was a pilot, and he had been flying GERTI for almost six years but none of the standard procedures which he had carried out for all that time would come to him. Frantically he wracked his brain. He desperately wanted to prove Mr. Gregory wrong but he couldn't think of a single item in the pre-flight check.

Mr. Gregory waited for several seconds, then sat forward a little. "When is your mother's birthday?" he asked quietly.

"It's ..." Martin started, but the date wouldn't come to him. He lowered his head and buried his face in his hands.

"Is there a table in the kitchen of your home or do you eat in the dining room?"

Martin shook his head, not raising it from his hands.

"What was the name of your primary school?"

"Stop it!" Martin said, lifting his head and staring angrily at the psychologist.

"I'm sorry. It is important for you to understand what is happening to you."

"I don't want to understand!" Martin shouted. "You're wrong! I just can't remember! I don't know why, but I can't remember."

"How do you explain what you just found on the internet?" Mr. Gregory asked.

Martin shook his head again, fighting the tears of frustration which were rising into his eyes.

"You are not simply suffering from amnesia," Mr. Gregory told him. "Something happened to you which not only blocked your real memories but replaced them with false ones – a whole new family and set of friends, a different job, a girlfriend ... But the people you currently remember – they do not exist."

"It's not true," Martin said desperately.

"I will help you come to terms with this disparity between what is real and what you currently believe," Mr. Gregory continued. "In time, you will understand that the Crieff family and the people you work with – and the job itself – are fictional."

He looked at him sympathetically. "I'm afraid it will be a long process, but I am here to help you. Right now I know that you don't believe me, but I _will_ help you accept the truth, and we will piece your life back together and help you to find out who you really are."

Martin stared at him, feeling both outraged and bewildered. This man was telling him things that _had_ to be untrue, and he desperately wanted to prove to him that everything he had said made no sense. He wanted to explain to him, clearly and point by point, all the inaccuracies in his assertions but the damned drugs were befuddling his thought processes and all he could see in his mind's eye was what had been on the computer. He shook his head hard, trying to clear it and stubbornly ignoring the angry tears that persisted in welling up in his eyes.

Appearing to understand his distress, Mr. Gregory stood and walked over to him, stopping a couple of paces away and offering him a linen handkerchief from his breast pocket. Martin glowered at him and then buried his head in his hands again, frantically trying to think. After a while the psychologist returned to his seat.

"Someone help me," Martin whispered quietly into his hands. "_Please_, somebody help me."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Martin was still numb the next morning. Mr. Gregory's words kept running around his head on a loop, but one phrase repeated more often than the others.

_Are__ you a pilot? __Are__ you a pilot?_

He still couldn't remember how to fly an aeroplane. He had barely slept last night, trying to remember GERTI's cockpit layout, her buttons and switches and dials but he could only see blurred images in his mind. He couldn't remember what the cabin looked like and didn't even know how many seats it contained. He tried to recall Fitton airfield but couldn't picture it. He could see what his house looked like from outside but he couldn't see the layout indoors except for a vague image of his attic room. He could clearly picture his mum and Simon and Caitlin and everyone from MJN, but still wasn't able to remember when his mother's birthday was, nor those of the others. Why – _why_ – was so much information missing?

The evidence on the internet had been terrifying and horrific but how could it possibly be true? How could he have invented his family, his job, his friends? He was a normal, straightforward man – he didn't have a vivid imagination at the best of times, so how could he possibly have dreamed all this up? And if ... and the thought made him feel almost nauseous ... if he really _wasn't_ Martin Crieff, then who _was_ he?

He sat in the armchair beside the bed lost in thought, barely responding to Lacey's cheerful chatter when she came in to do the early morning check-up. Jack brought in his breakfast a few minutes later but seemed sympathetic to his state of mind and didn't try to engage him in conversation. Martin continued to stare out of the window while his mind ran riot with frightening possibilities. It was several hours before his attention returned to the world around him.

He had realised several days ago that the door to his room was locked because he heard the staff swiping a card through a reader before they came in. However, in the early afternoon after Narinda had done another regular check-up, she also changed the bedding and had difficulty getting out of the door with one hand full of sheets and pillowcases while wheeling her trolley with the other. Instead of pulling the door closed she let it drift shut and a few minutes later Martin realised that the latch hadn't caught. He sat and looked at the door for a long time before heaving himself to his feet and walking cautiously across the room and pulling the door open. There was nobody in sight and after some thought he began to hobble down the corridor, feeling frighteningly weak and leaning on the wall to support himself. He had no intention of trying to escape – for one thing, he didn't know where he could escape _to_ – but he was curious to see more of his surroundings. However, now that he was out he was too nervous to try any of the doors, most of which were marked simply with a number and had a card reader beside them. All the room numbers began with a two and he assumed – both from this and from the view from his bedroom window – that he was on the second floor of the hospital.

He had only made it halfway down the corridor when his legs began threatening to give out under him. A nearby door was marked as a bathroom and didn't require a card to open it and he stumbled inside, lowered the lid of the toilet and sat down heavily on it, resting there for a while.

When he began to feel stronger, he pushed himself to his feet and prepared to return to his room but stopped when he noticed a mirror above the small sink. Because of the lack of a mirror in his en-suite bathroom he hadn't seen his reflection since arriving at the hospital, so he looked at himself curiously. He had lost some weight – his cheekbones were very prominent – and he needed a haircut but otherwise he looked fairly healthy, and he was just about to turn away when he frowned. There _was_ something different. He tilted his head forward to get a better look ... and that was when Daniel opened the door.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked worriedly. "We've been looking for you! Are you all right?"

"I wasn't ... I wasn't doing anything bad," Martin stuttered. "The-the door to my room was open and I just came out for a look. I was just curious. I'm sorry."

"Let's get you back to your room," Daniel said, taking his arm and slinging it around his own neck before wrapping an arm around his waist and helping him back along the corridor. "You'll do yourself a mischief," he scolded as they walked along. "You're not strong enough to go off on unscheduled walks yet. If you want to go out into the grounds, tell someone and we'll get you a wheelchair and take you out."

"I don't want to be any trouble," Martin said anxiously.

"It wouldn't be trouble," Daniel told him. "We're _here_ to be troubled." He grinned and added confidentially, "And if we take a patient outside we have to stay with 'em until they're ready to come back in, so we get a nice sit-down in the fresh air for a while, which is lovely if the weather's nice!"

They arrived back at Martin's room (numbered 221, he noted absently) and Daniel settled him in the armchair and gave him a brief check-up to ensure that he hadn't over-exerted himself. Reassured, he left after a stern admonition of, "And no more wandering off!" Unsurprisingly, he carefully closed the door behind him.

Martin sat staring out of the window for a long time, initially wondering if he had been mistaken when he had looked in the mirror. But mirrors didn't lie, the lighting had been bright in the bathroom and the evidence had been plain.

Like many kids with red hair, he had been teased and bullied at school. It had been hard for him, but he had come to terms with it. He had never felt the need to dye his hair to try and disguise its colour, but neither had he felt so rebellious that he had dyed it even more red than its natural shade.

So why, when he looked at his hair in the mirror, had he seen dark brown roots growing out?


	2. Chapter 2

_**Please heed/revisit Warnings and Disclaimer at the beginning of Chapter 1.**_

**Chapter 2**

"Why hasn't anyone reported me missing?" Martin asked several days later.

"It's very possible that they did," Mr. Gregory replied, "but any such reports will be under a name you don't yet remember." He offered a small smile. "Be patient. I'm sure you have a family and friends who miss you and are anxious to have you back."

The psychologist had been coming to his room each morning and explaining the symptoms of a brief reactive psychosis over and over again. Martin went through phases of refusing to believe anything he told him but he was now finding himself at the point of reluctantly wondering if it might just be true. The gaps in his memory were still there and made no sense, and although his conviction that he was definitely a pilot had not waned, he was more willing to admit to himself that something was obviously wrong with his other beliefs.

Showing an uncanny ability to read his mind, almost as soon as Martin began to be more receptive to the possibility that his memories were inaccurate Mr. Gregory offered a way to help.

"It's called the Mind Palace," he explained. "You form an image in your mind of a building containing many rooms – I will help you build this picture – and then you place specific memories into a specific room. You map out the route to that room so that you can always find it again if you require those memories in the future. I accept that you are not yet ready to deny your previous imagined existence, and this is a more gentle way of starting to move on than simply trying to believe that your memories are false."

He twirled the handle of the umbrella that he had brought in and had propped at the side of his chair. Martin didn't like the umbrella at all. This made no sense to him – what could possibly be wrong with such an ordinary item? However, his first sight of it had brought on another of the strange door slamming sensations in his mind, and his head still ached. Grimacing, he tried to concentrate as the psychologist continued.

"I'm going to teach you a way to shut away that false information in your own Mind Palace. You'll still be able to access it if necessary, but it will be in a separate compartment of your mind so that you can ignore it until needed."

He smiled briefly. "I taught this technique to my brother many years ago. I never thought I'd be doing it again."

He looked away. Martin was surprised when he saw that the reflective expression on his face made him look years younger – and for a moment Martin felt a touch of empathy towards him.

The feeling didn't last long.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"... and gently close the door."

Martin grimaced and let out a distressed breath.

"You can do this," Mr. Gregory told him. His tone was firm although he sounded sympathetic. "Close the door. He'll be quite safe there."

Screwing his eyes more tightly closed, Martin reached out in his mind's eye and pulled the imaginary door shut. Holding onto the door's handle for a while, he eventually – and reluctantly – released it and moved his hand down to turn the key in the lock.

"Simon is perfectly safe in the room," Mr. Gregory reminded him. "He has all the amenities he needs in there. Don't allow yourself to be upset; you can let him out at any time if you really need to, but for now he needs to be out of your sight. Leave him there, safe from harm. Let him go."

Martin sighed shakily. It had been agonisingly hard to lock Douglas, Carolyn and Arthur inside the rooms which Mr. Gregory had helped him to build one by one inside his Mind Palace, and his heart had almost broken when he had done the same to Theresa. Somehow he had thought that it wouldn't be so difficult with Simon – after all, they'd not been close for years. But this was his _brother_. It didn't matter that they didn't get on, or that Simon always intimidated him and had spent most of his life outsmarting him – shutting him away and denying his existence felt _wrong_.

He opened his eyes and looked at Mr. Gregory, who seemed to have a strangely intense expression on his face. "I hate this," he told him.

"You'll hate it every time," the psychologist said, "but you know that it must be done."

Martin looked down unhappily. He was dreading the sessions when he would be forced to lock away Caitlin and his mother.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"I don't think he's forgiven me yet for insisting that Arthur went into the same room as Carolyn," Martin told Jack when he came to collect his lunch tray.

"That was days ago," Jack said. "He'll have forgotten about it by now. Anyway, you aren't supposed to be talking about them."

"They're locked away where I can't see them," Martin said. "I can't make myself stop thinking about them ... not yet. I mean, I _am_ starting to understand that they never existed, but it's so difficult to _forget_ them."

"I'm not even going to pretend I understand what you're going through," Jack said with a sympathetic smile, "but you'll get there in the end. I'm sure you will."

He looked out of the window. "It's gorgeous out there today," he said. "D'you fancy some air?"

"Am I allowed?" Martin asked.

"Of course you are," Jack asserted. "We've explained this before: we keep your room locked to keep you safe. Patients here can be unpredictable and if one got out of their room unsupervised they might behave irrationally if they met anyone." He directed a cheeky smirk at Martin. "I seem to remember someone busting out of _this_ room and going walkabout not so long ago, eh?"

Martin blushed and Jack smiled at him. "But you can _always_ go out with supervision," he continued. "If you'd like, I'll get a wheelchair now and take you to the garden, okay?"

"It would be nice to go outside," Martin said wistfully, and Jack grinned.

"Back soon," he said and left the room, returning not long afterwards with a wheelchair.

"Can't I walk there?" Martin asked.

"You shouldn't try and walk too far," Jack told him. "You're a bit out of practice, and you don't want to keel over halfway there. Come on; I'll push you outside and you can walk once we get to the garden."

He handed Martin his dressing gown and then helped him into the wheelchair. As he pushed him out of the door Martin felt a shiver of excitement at leaving the room for something other than more tests, but he mockingly grumbled, "I feel like an old man, being wheeled about like this."

"Make the most of it," Jack said. "You should enjoy being chauffeured around while you've got the chance!"

They made their way through the corridors and down to the ground floor in a lift, and finally reached a door leading to the garden. Jack turned the chair around, swiped a card through the reader and then backed through the door, making high-pitched beeping noises like a reversing vehicle as he pulled the chair into the garden. Martin giggled, then drew in an ecstatic breath and turned his face upwards as fresh air and sunlight hit him for the first time in weeks. "Ooh, that's good," he said softly.

"I should have got some sun cream," Jack observed. "You'll burn if we stay out too long." He looked around and made a satisfied noise while pointing to a garden bench a short distance away. "That one's shaded from direct sunlight," he said. "Fancy trying to walk to it?"

Martin put his hands onto the arms of the wheelchair and started to push himself up. Jack hurried round to his side, put a hand under one of his arms and helped him to his feet. "Just stand there for a moment and get your balance," he instructed, then wheeled the chair around in front of him. "Here," he said. "Brace yourself on the chair and push it in front of you. Don't lean too far forward."

Taking hold of the chair's handles, Martin began to walk, Jack keeping close beside him ready to support him if he should start to fall. By the time they reached the bench under the tree, Martin's legs felt decidedly wobbly but he managed to keep upright before sinking gratefully onto the bench. Jack sat down beside him and Martin again turned his face up to the sun, filtered as it was through branches and leaves. "This is blissful," he said.

"I didn't think you were a sun lover," Jack said.

"I've missed fresh air, but no, I don't normally stay out for long because I do burn easily," Martin told him. A memory began to nag at the back of his mind but he couldn't put his finger on it and after a moment he stopped trying to remember and simply enjoyed the warmth of the sun and the gentle breeze.

They sat there for about twenty minutes, not talking much. A few other patients came and went through the garden with their own escorts but nobody came near to them. After a while the sun moved behind another tree and the air became less warm. Martin tried to ignore the cooling breeze, wanting to stay out for as long as possible but eventually he couldn't help but shiver.

"It gets a bit nippy out of the sun," Jack instantly remarked, "and you shouldn't overdo it on your first day out." He turned and smiled. "So, back to two-two-one, then?"

Martin flinched. Inside his head it felt again as if the invisible door had been flung open and had crashed against the wall before slamming shut. After a moment he mumbled, "Chinese."

"Sorry, what?" Jack asked.

Martin rubbed his head. "I just had a sudden yearning for Chinese takeaway."

Jack looked startled for a second, but his smile quickly returned and he asked cheerfully, "Shall we make a run for it?"

Martin looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"I dare you," Jack said with a grin. "We could make a run for the gates and see if we can get through them before we're spotted. If we make good our escape, I'll take you into town. There are three Chinese takeaways in the High Street – I'll teach you the door handle trick to find out which one's the best."

Martin looked past him towards the gates, almost tempted by Jack's enthusiasm, but then Jack shook his head.

"When you're stronger, I promise I'll smuggle you in a takeaway, but right now it's best you stick to hospital food." He smiled. "And maybe once you're really on the road to recovery we'll stage a break-out one night. I bet we could give the security boys a run for their money."

"Do you think so?" Martin asked him, uncertain if he was being serious.

"Oh sure," Jack said airily. "What's the worst that could happen? We get caught, dragged back here and given a right telling-off by Mr. Gregory." He grinned wickedly. "Could be dangerous."

Martin giggled and Jack soon joined in. Martin couldn't remember the last time he had laughed, and it felt good. Eventually they settled down, and then Martin remembered what had been nagging at him earlier and asked quietly, "What's wrong with my hair?"

Jack's eyes flickered upwards. "There's nothing wrong with it," he said, a nervous tone creeping into his voice.

"I've had red hair all my life," Martin said. "Why is it growing out darker?"

"Your memories aren't always accurate," Jack reminded him.

"This is ridiculous!" Martin burst out. "Even if I invented people who were my friends and family, why would I imagine having different coloured _hair_?!" He lifted his head and frowned at Jack. "And why did I go to the bother of actually _dyeing_ it that colour? A lot of this doesn't make any sense."

Jack met his eyes firmly. "_Keep_ thinking about it," he told him. "I reckon that the more you think about the stuff that doesn't make sense, the more likely you are to work some of it out for yourself."

* * *

"We have finished the first stage of our interrogations," Mycroft Holmes told John Watson that evening.

John grimaced. He had no sympathy for the abductors at all but he didn't envy what they must have been going through during Mycroft's 'interrogations' and suspected that little which went on in their detention centre was legal.

"What have you learned?" he asked.

"As we already knew, Sherlock was abducted when he was lured to Tonbridge during the Griffiths case. We now know that his abductors took him to an isolated location near Faversham where he was subjected to drugging, hypnosis and psychological reprogramming by the lieutenant of James Moriarty about whom I have spoken."

John nodded. Only after Sherlock had been rescued had Mycroft told him about the man he suspected to be responsible for his brother's disappearance. Moriarty had had two lieutenants: Sebastian Moran, his enforcer and main assassin; and this other man. Virtually nothing was known about him: nobody knew his name – in fact nobody even knew if he was a man or a woman although it was assumed that he was male – but whoever he (or she) was, the criminal underworld held him in awe. He had done the worst of Moriarty's dirty work, and whenever he was sent out on a task he got the job done with no consideration for anyone who got in his way. His enthusiasm for his work was legendary and it had continued after Moriarty's death while he remained frustratingly elusive. His people were loyal and nobody dared to cross him, and Mycroft's people had been unable to get the slightest hint of Sherlock's whereabouts until he had been moved for the final phase of the plan.

For almost three months Sherlock had been programmed until he had forgotten himself and had begun genuinely to believe that he was a rather sad and unimportant man called Martin Crieff. The lieutenant's training of Sherlock had been perfect, adding the physical touches of dyeing his hair – and letting him see himself in mirrors regularly to reinforce his appearance – and putting a ring on his finger and convincing him that it was his late father's. Additionally, Sherlock had been repeatedly shown photographs of people who he was told were his friends and family, and once the programming was well underway he had been visited or telephoned during hypnosis by some of the people from the photographs as they pretended to be Douglas, and his mother, and Theresa. After repeated sessions Sherlock – or, rather, Martin – had interacted comfortably with each of these people, had memorised their phone numbers and called them whenever it was suggested to him, and had happily tucked a photograph of Theresa into the wallet he had been given.

Once the programming was complete, Sherlock was taken to an airfield and it was during this transfer that Mycroft's people had finally got wind of his location and had sent in a retrieval team. Throughout the ensuing firefight Sherlock had stood completely still, apparently unaware of the gunfire all around him, and the retrieval team's job had been all the more difficult while they tried not to shoot him accidentally. Two of them had sustained gunshot wounds but the abductors had lost four of their own team before finally surrendering. Even then, Sherlock had not responded to his rescuers and had meekly gone with them when they led him away. It had been some time later that he had 'woken' and had immediately panicked and begun insisting on his new identity. Eventually he had been sedated and brought to this hospital, which was frequently used for deprogramming personnel who had been under deep cover for long periods. Mycroft's insistence that he and John would do most of the work on deprogramming Sherlock had not gone down well with the medical staff ... but he had of course prevailed.

Mycroft continued his report. "Before it was thwarted, the plan was that Sherlock, in his hypnotised state, would be placed in the cockpit of an executive jet. A pilot would have flown the aeroplane to its maximum height and then engaged the automatic pilot before exiting with a parachute. Sherlock ... or Martin, I should say, was programmed to wake up to the alarm made when the automatic pilot disengaged a few minutes later. The aeroplane would start to fall out of the sky and 'Martin' would find that, despite being certain he was a trained airline captain, he had no recollection of how to work the controls. The radio was disconnected so that he couldn't call for help, and he would spend his last few minutes in utter confusion and terror. Moriarty's lieutenant would have filmed the entire event via cameras in the cockpit."

"But why?!" John burst out, appalled by the mental images in his head. "Why go to all that effort? If this man wanted Sherlock dead, why not just kill him straightaway?"

"Killing him quickly was too easy," Mycroft replied. "He wanted him confused, afraid and feeling utter despair before his death. No doubt, to him, the weeks he spent programming Sherlock were all part of the 'fun'." His lip curled disdainfully as he uttered the last word.

"But why a pilot?" John asked. "Does Sherlock even know how to fly a plane? Wouldn't he still have crashed and ..." he had to stop and swallow, "... died?"

Mycroft looked grim. "Regardless of his lack of expertise in controlling an aeroplane, _Sherlock_ would have fought to the last to keep it in the air and to try and land. He would have been determined to survive until it was no longer possible, and only at the very last moment would he have felt regret that he had not worked out the controls in time. This man wanted him hysterical, panic-stricken and desperate all the way down."

John swallowed again. "I still don't understand why he went to so much effort," he said.

"Since Sherlock destroyed a great deal of Moriarty's empire and brought about the arrest of many of his people, other criminal leaders have been squabbling over the remnants," Mycroft told him. "I have no doubt that this man recorded many of the sessions while he was reprogramming my brother. That, together with the footage taken in the aeroplane, would have served as his 'audition piece' to the criminal world, demonstrating that he is a powerful, clever person perfectly suited to take over Moriarty's network. By producing evidence of how he brought down Sherlock Holmes – Moriarty's greatest enemy – from a confident genius to an anxious, pathetic and terrified man before his death, he would clearly be seen as someone to be reckoned with and who should be considered Moriarty's natural successor.

"It would also serve as a warning that he would be a dangerous man to cross," he added with a grimace.

"And why the hell did he give him a princess for a girlfriend?!" John demanded. "That's an utterly ridiculous thing for a sad little man like Martin to have."

"It made his history all the more realistic," Mycroft replied. "Martin had his dream job but it was unpaid. In order to survive he had to undertake less enjoyable work in his spare time. He lived in a poky attic flat because it was all that he could afford, and he had no social life. It was almost ridiculous to think that someone like him could have a princess girlfriend, so therefore it must be true."

He looked reflective. "It's not the first time that this has been done to Sherlock. Give him love, loss and redemption ... and he _will_ dance."

"Are we going to get him back?" John asked worriedly.

Mycroft straightened in his chair. "I have to believe so. For once, Sherlock's history with drugs has been helpful. He will have been more resistant to the drugs used on him in the early stages, and when he realised that he would not be rescued in time, he took steps to protect himself, shutting everything important – his 'essence', for want of a better word – into a room in his Mind Palace, locking it so far away that the programming couldn't reach it. He will have protected that room with cryptic locks which can only be opened with very specific code words – code words that his captor couldn't possibly guess or use accidentally or extract from him under hypnosis. Of course, this means that not even I can begin to work out what the codes are which will trigger his memory's return, but they will be circumstances or words that he would only hear once he was safe. I'm only allowing him occasional prompts in connection with his real life because if he hears too many triggers at once, his shielded mind may feel that it's being invaded and will burn all the code words to protect itself. This will be a very hit and miss procedure, but one potential prompt every now and again will hopefully start the unlocking procedure."

He smiled briefly. "That's why I've been leaving my umbrella at reception until a few days ago. And surely you don't think it's a coincidence that he is in room two hundred and twenty-one?"

"You left the ring on his hand," John pointed out.

"Because _Martin_ would have missed it," Mycroft said. "He would have been distressed to find it gone and would have wanted it back. If he eventually removes it voluntarily, it will be a good sign.

"I also decided not to dye his hair back to its natural colour," he continued. "I intended to keep him from seeing it in the early days but once he began to understand his situation I would have shown him his true colour growing out and it would help him to realise that his memories were incorrect." He rolled his eyes. "Obviously we didn't intend for him to get out of his room – certainly not that soon – but it seems that seeing his reflection didn't do any harm and may indeed have encouraged the commencement of his acceptance.

"'Little and often' is the watchword here, John," he added. "We must not _force_ him to recognise aspects of his real life; just 'coincidental' positive reinforcement of their existence to prompt his true memories."

John nodded, his brain reeling at all this information. "Any news on the whereabouts of Moriarty's man?" he asked.

Mycroft's expression became ominous. "I'm sure he was somewhere nearby when we rescued Sherlock, and my only regret is that we didn't apprehend him. But I _will_ find him, and it will give me very great pleasure to ... deal with him."

John sat up straighter and locked eyes with Mycroft. "Dibs," he told him flatly.

"Sherlock is _my_ brother," Mycroft said sternly.

"And he's ... he's the man who gave my life meaning," John said. "I'm not sure I'd be alive now if it wasn't for him. To see him like this ... I need to be there when you take that bastard down."

"Very well," Mycroft conceded. "If it is at all possible, I assure you that you will be there for the finish."

"Do you have _any_ idea where he might be?" John asked.

"Regrettably none at present," Mycroft said, "but he cannot hide forever, and my determination to find him is all the greater now."

He grimaced. "Some of my people are starting to use the criminal underworld's nickname for him and are referring to him as 'The Ghost' because he has been elusive and invisible for so long. It is something I am discouraging very firmly but the longer he remains at large, the more my people will come to feel begrudging respect for him. I will not permit this to continue."

"But _you've_ got a name for him, haven't you?" John asked shrewdly. "I can tell by the look on your face, and I'm sure you don't refer to him as 'Moriarty's other lieutenant' all the time."

Mycroft hesitated before replying. "In the privacy of my own mind I sometimes allow myself to think of him as 'Bambi'."

John stared at him incredulously and Mycroft looked almost awkward. "Sherlock was bullied at school," he explained hastily, "and one of the biggest bullies – the only one who was starting to intimidate him – was named Graham Bamber. I taught Sherlock to think of him only as 'Bambi'."

He scowled at John's bemused expression. "No, we have never watched the film of that name. But by turning his name into a diminutive, it helped to negate the boy's influence on him."

He looked at John sternly. "I am not in the least intimidated by this man ... but I find the name a pleasant reminder that he can and will be beaten."

John nodded. "So why have _you_ taken charge of Sherlock's deprogramming?" he asked. "You're not a trained psychologist."

"I know how to handle my brother," Mycroft replied.

"That's not your brother," John said, pointing in the direction of Martin's room.

"Not at present," Mycroft said, "but when Sherlock starts to emerge, I believe he will respond better to me than to anyone else – with a possible few exceptions. That's why _you're_ here as well." He looked at John closely. "How are you coping?"

"It's killing me," John said bluntly. "It's killing me looking into his eyes and not seeing Sherlock looking back at me. Martin is _so_ different that I don't have a problem remembering his name; he's so nervous, so shy, he doesn't have a scrap of self-confidence – it scares me to death seeing such a different personality in my best friend's body."

He stared at Mycroft in bewilderment. "His _voice_ even sounds different! How the hell did 'Bambi' programme him to do _that_?"

"I don't believe that he did," Mycroft replied. "I imagine that this is how Sherlock would always have sounded had he led a different life and not developed such great confidence in himself and his abilities."

John grimaced. "I feel like I've been teleported to an alternate universe," he said miserably. "There are times I want to shake him and yell at him to stop all this nonsense. It's almost as bad as when ..."

He trailed off, not wanting to remember the last time he had lost Sherlock. Instead he raised his head and looked at Mycroft with determination. "But I'll cope for as long as I have to until we get him back."

* * *

Martin had just finished breakfast two days later when Lacey burst into his room, grinning as she brought in a large suit carrier and a holdall and deposited them onto his bed.

"Clothes!" she announced. "The Powers That Be have decreed that it's time you got out of those hospital pyjamas and put some proper clothes on."

She gestured at the holdall first. "Underwear, socks and shoes in there; and everything else in the carrier," she said. "Take your pick; and I'll pop in later to see you looking fabulous!"

Beaming at him, she swept out of the room. Martin jumped up from the armchair and eagerly opened the holdall. He had already showered before breakfast, so he pulled the curtains around his bed and took off his pyjamas, keen to get into something which wasn't night wear. He hoped this meant that Mr. Gregory and the medical team thought he was getting better.

Quickly pulling on a pair of underpants and some socks, he unzipped the suit carrier and folded it open. What greeted his gaze almost blew his mind. On top of the pile were several pairs of expensive-looking trousers and when he selected a pair and put them on, they fit him so well that he wondered if the medical team had taken his measurements during the time he was unconscious. Also in the bag was a collection of shirts, any of which had probably cost more than he could earn from Icarus Removals in several weeks. Choosing one of them and putting it on, he felt a little awkward at how close-fitting it was but had to admit that he felt quite comfortable in it. He hesitated for a long time over the top buttons, wishing that there were some ties in the bag. He always wore a shirt and tie at work, and the rest of the time he lived in T-shirts; this felt as if he was in some strange mid-way stage between the two. Then he reminded himself that maybe he always dressed like this, unlikely as it seemed. After initially buttoning the shirt to the top, he eventually undid the top two buttons, feeling strangely vulnerable as he lowered his hands but nevertheless wishing there was a mirror in the room.

Putting on one of the pairs of shoes – again obviously very expensive but a perfect fit – he sat down in the armchair, noting with bemusement after a while that he had crossed his legs. It wasn't a position he usually took. Wondering why different clothing should make him sit differently, and again contemplating the possibility that maybe he _did_ regularly sit this way but simply didn't remember, he steepled his hands in front of his mouth while he thought it through but still hadn't come to any conclusion when someone knocked on the door and then opened it.

Lacey stuck her head through the opening, her eyes comically squinched shut. "Are you decent?" she asked.

"I am appropriately dressed, yes," Martin told her, wondering why his voice sounded deeper than usual, "and so you are permitted to look." Although he was deliberately overdoing the formal language in an attempt to be humorous, he couldn't explain to himself why he had loudly clicked the 'k' on the last word.

Grinning, Lacey opened her eyes and came into the room, then gaped at him before letting out an appreciative whistle. "Sorry," she apologised immediately. "That was very unprofessional but, wow, Martin, you look amazing!"

Blushing, Martin uncrossed his legs and slumped down in the chair a little, unused to being complimented. "Really?" he asked with some embarrassment.

"Are you kidding?! You look fantastic," she told him. "D'you wanna come to the loo down the corridor and have a peek in the mirror?"

"Erm ..." Martin said nervously.

"Oh, come on – you ought to see this!" Lacey said, holding the door open. "And Mr G. said that it would be okay if you wanted to look."

She escorted him down the corridor and pushed open the bathroom door before flamboyantly gesturing him into the room with a cheerful grin. Martin went inside and looked at himself in the mirror for a long time. He did look rather good, he admitted to himself, though the sight of his dark roots brought on another headachey slam.

"You all right?" Lacey asked after a while, still holding the door open.

"Mmm," Martin said absently, his eyes locked on his reflection. Automatically his hands raised and steepled in front of his mouth again as he continued to watch himself. The position seemed to be helping him to concentrate for some reason. Puzzled, he lowered his arms again, then turned to Lacey and smiled shyly at her admiring look. She grinned back at him.

"Where next?" she asked. "Want to go outside? I'll get you an orderly."

Not waiting for his reply, she looked up and down the corridor, apparently spotting someone immediately. "Oi, Jack!" she said loudly. "Escort for a garden visit?" Turning back to Martin, she beckoned him out of the bathroom. He walked into the corridor and turned to smile at the approaching orderly.

Jack stopped and stared at him as if he had seen a ghost. Martin frowned, confused by his reaction, and Jack blinked hard, then smiled widely and started towards him again.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Are you all right?" Martin asked later as they sat on the bench in the garden.

"Mmm, fine," Jack said absently, his head still bent over the newspaper crossword puzzle he was doing.

"You looked upset when you saw me."

"Did I?" Jack looked round at him for a second before returning to his paper. "No, of course I wasn't. Bit startled, that's all. You look very different now you're dressed. Do you _feel_ different?"

"I think so," Martin replied cautiously. "I've been stuck in pyjamas for so long that it's good to be in proper clothes." He hesitated, then continued, "But it must be a good sign, mustn't it, that they're letting me get dressed?"

"Oh, hell, yes!" Jack said enthusiastically.

Martin smiled, then leaned back and raised his face to the sunlight.

Jack continued working on his crossword, then grumbled. "Hmm, I must have got some of the other clues wrong – this one _can't_ be right," he complained. "Eleven letters, clue is 'Message from the moors'. Blank, U, blank, M, blank, Q, blank, blank, blank, R, A."

He looked up hopefully at Martin for a moment, then shrugged. "I've _definitely_ got some of the other clues wrong," he said with a mournful smile and turned back to the puzzle.

* * *

"I'm bringing her in tomorrow," Mycroft told John a few days later.

"Are you sure she'll be able to cope?" John asked.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "She has assured me that she will be able to control herself," he said. "I admit I'm not completely confident, but I'm sure that you and I can cover if required. And if she _does_ become upset, it might cause an emotional response which may help to trigger his memory recall."

* * *

Martin had a long session with Mr. Gregory the following afternoon and afterwards the psychologist suggested that they go to the common room. He explained that there was a chilly breeze outside and it wouldn't be wise to venture out, but the common room caught the sun in the afternoon. Jack wandered in shortly after their arrival, quickly giving up all pretence of cleaning and coming over to join them. Martin chatted with him for a while, but then Jack turned and beamed in the direction of an elderly lady who was pushing a trolley into the room.

"Oh, God bless her," he said. He turned to Mr. Gregory. "She doesn't come round often enough for my liking. Can't we get her in more regularly?"

"Think yourself lucky that we get volunteers at all," Mr. Gregory told him. "The hospital's budget doesn't run to paying staff for this role."

Jack shrugged, then turned again to smile at the approaching woman. Her trolley held several teapots and cups and saucers on the top shelf, and underneath were shelves containing a large assortment of obviously second-hand paperback books. As she wheeled the trolley over to where another patient and his 'minder' were sitting, Jack remarked, "I don't know how she does it when she's using the same stuff we use, but she makes the best cup of tea I've ever tasted."

After serving one of the teapots to the other patient, the woman pushed her trolley over to Martin's group. She looked a little anxious and her eyes darted nervously towards him and then flitted away to stare at Jack as if seeking reassurance from him. He stood up and greeted her warmly.

"You're a saint, Mrs H.," he told her as he took one of the teapots, three cups and saucers and some milk and sugar from the trolley and put them on the coffee table in front of Mr. Gregory.

"You're welcome, dear," she said, her eyes turning to Martin again before quickly skidding away.

"This is Mrs Henson," Mr. Gregory told him. "She is volunteering here, and I will agree with Jack that she does make a rather splendid pot of tea." He reached for the teapot, smiling into Martin's eyes as he lifted it. "I'll be mother," he said.

_'A whole childhood in a nutshell,'_ Martin thought, wincing as the door in his head crashed against the wall and slammed shut again. Trying to hide his grimace and wondering why he was having such unkind thoughts about his psychologist, it seemed to him that the man was looking at him strangely, as if he was reading his mind again. After a moment, however, he turned his attention to pouring the tea. Mrs Henson took a shaky breath and seemed to brace herself, but the smile she finally aimed at Martin was sweet and friendly.

"Would you like to borrow any of these books?" she asked.

Glancing at the selection, Martin realised that they were probably all novels and that he didn't really want any. Novels were a waste of time and he would much rather have some flight manuals to study. However, out of politeness and in deference to Mrs Henson's anxious look, he chose a few at random and she wrote their details onto a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard.

"And what's your room number?" she asked.

"Two two one B," he told her.

Even as he corrected himself, wondering where the extra letter had come from and frowning as that damned door slammed open and closed in his head again, both Jack and Mrs Henson gasped, and Jack turned and glanced at Mr. Gregory. The psychologist looked back at him blandly and took a sip of his tea.

_'Something important just happened,'_ Martin thought, but he didn't like to ask.

Jack had jolted so strongly when he gasped that he had spilled tea onto the arm of his chair. As he scrabbled in his pockets for something to wipe it up, Mrs Henson pulled a paper tissue from her bag and mopped up the liquid. "Thanks, Mrs H.," Jack said. He looked up at her with an expression which suggested he was only joking as he asked, "Can you come round and clean my flat next?"

Mrs Henson looked at him with wide eyes and spoke hesitantly, sounding almost as if she had rehearsed the line. "I'm a tea lady, dear, not your housekeeper."

She turned and looked anxiously at Martin, who gazed back at her uncomprehendingly. After a moment her eyes began to fill with tears and she bent her head and rummaged in her handbag to extract another tissue. Instantly he was filled with a strange feeling.

"Don't ..." he began, then clamped his mouth shut, appalled at the thought in his head. Had he _really_ been about to say, "Don't snivel, Mrs Henson," to her? What sort of hideous person would say that to such a sweet old lady? Was this who he really was; was this who he would become if he got his memories back?

His headache was getting worse.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Who the bloody hell am I?" Martin burst out when Jack came in the next morning. He had been pacing between the window and the bedside armchair for some time and even though his legs were beginning to feel weak from more exercise than they were used to, he didn't seem able to keep still.

"Martin ..." Jack began cautiously.

"I don't even know if my name _is_ Martin! It could be Brian or Ricardo or _Sherrinford_ for all I know!" He winced as the internal door slammed open and shut. "I don't know _anything_ about me. Are my parents alive? Do they know I'm missing? Do they even care? Do I have brothers or sisters? Who's my best friend? Do I _have_ a best friend?"

Jack opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"What if I'm _horrible_?" Martin asked him in dread, stopping near the armchair. "What if I'm some really rude unpleasant man who has no friends and whose family don't care about him? What if I'm some hideous criminal? What if I've done terrible things?"

"Sh..." Jack began, then clamped his mouth shut.

"I don't _want_ to shush!" Martin yelled at him. "I don't know what'll be worse – finding out I'm awful, or my memories _never_ coming back. For God's sake – I don't even know what my favourite colour is!"

He sank down onto the edge of the bed, staring down at his shaking hands in his lap. Immediately Jack sat beside him and put a comforting arm around him, and after a moment Martin turned and buried his face into his shoulder, fighting the urge to simply let go and cry. Jack brought his other hand up and gently cradled his head.

They sat there for a long time. Martin had no idea whether his true self would object to being held like this but right now he felt both comfortable and comforted. He was no nearer to finding out who he was, but at least he had got his pent-up anxiety out of his system for a while.

Closing his eyes, he wondered idly why his shoulder underneath Jack's head felt damp.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The therapy sessions continued, Mr. Gregory helping Martin to enlarge the Mind Palace and move the locked rooms deeper and deeper into the structure. For the rest of the time, apart from occasional visits to the garden with Jack or one of the nurses, Martin mostly stayed in his room either trying to read the books he had borrowed but frequently finding them too uninteresting to continue, or simply gazing out of the window and wondering whether his memory would ever return.

Eventually he was encouraged to go to the hospital's gym where a therapist started a gentle exercise routine to build up his physical strength. Other patients were also there and sometimes one of them would strike up a conversation with him but Martin didn't talk with them for long, either finding them tedious or getting an attack of shyness and he would make excuses to leave, or would move to another piece of equipment.

Realising how bored he was getting, Jack brought some CDs and a player with speakers to his room, each of the discs consisting of instrumental music. Martin enjoyed listening to the piano etudes, but wasn't so enamoured of the jazz recordings. A few days later he returned from the gym and found that Jack had left him some more discs and when he selected one randomly and put it on, it began to play classical violin music. After only three minutes he had to turn it off again. There didn't seem to be anything objectionable about the music but the door-banging in his head was getting too painful. Additionally, he couldn't understand why the fingers on his left hand kept twitching in complicated patterns in time to the music.

Jack spent more and more time in Martin's room, frequently not even pretending to clean. He would sit in the other armchair and the two of them would talk, or would sit in comfortable silence or listen to music, although Martin didn't put any of the violin music on again. Other times when they were being quiet Jack would get out a newspaper and read it or do the crossword, and Martin would try to concentrate on one of his books. Occasionally he would glance up to watch Jack when he thought he wasn't looking. Sometimes Jack looked sad. Martin hated seeing him like that but didn't think it appropriate to ask what was wrong, and Jack would be smiling again by the time he looked up to meet his eyes.

Martin was sitting in the armchair one afternoon reading the third novel while Jack changed the bed. "How's the book?" Jack asked as he tucked in the bottom sheet.

"Dull," Martin said idly without looking up. "It's obvious that the secretary is the assassin. Why else would she paint her fingernails fuchsia pink? Clearly they were her uncle's favourite flowers."

Jack was silent and Martin raised his eyes to see a look of triumph on his face. "What?" he asked.

Jack shook his head. "Nothing. But that was a pretty smart deduction, don't you think?"

Martin frowned down at the book. "Was it?"

"What page are you on?"

"Um ... thirty-eight."

"Has anyone _said_ that her uncle liked fuchsias yet?" Jack asked.

"I don't ... remember," Martin replied. "At least, I can't remember when it was said. But how else would I know?"

"How else indeed?" Jack asked cryptically.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Three days later Mr. Gregory asked Martin during their therapy session to describe Caitlin, and then Douglas. It seemed a strange question when previously he had been encouraged to lock those people away and forget them, but Mr. Gregory persisted. Talking about the woman he had thought was his sister, Martin started off well enough but then couldn't remember the colour of her eyes; and although he knew that she had long hair, he couldn't recall whether she generally wore it loose or tied it back. Moving on to the man who he had believed was his co-pilot, he could hear Douglas' laconic drawl clearly in his head but struggled to remember what he looked like. Mr. Gregory nodded approvingly, telling him it was a sign that he was making progress.

Martin took off his ring the following morning. He handed it to Jack and asked him to keep it safe, waiting for some feeling of regret or pain, but it didn't come. Frequently during the next couple of days he looked at his bare finger, willing himself to remember where he had got the ring and why he had imbued it with a memory of it being his non-existent father's, but still his true memories refused to surface.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Martin was dreaming. He _knew_ he was dreaming, but it didn't stop the excitement building inside him. He was running – running as fast as he could, as if the devil were behind him. But he wasn't running _away_ – he was running _towards_ something, and he knew that when he got there it would be dangerous and terrifying and life-threatening and _wonderful_, and he needed to get there because this was what he lived for. His consciousness shifted and he realised that he wasn't alone as he ran – Jack was running a few paces behind him, matching his speed, and his face was alight with joy and excitement and Martin knew that he felt exactly the same level of fear and delight. Martin laughed deliriously as he increased his speed. "Come _on_, John!" he shouted, and his partner grinned as they raced onwards, and then Jack (John) reached back and pulled a pistol from the back of his jeans and even though Martin had never had any interest in guns he recognised it instantly and he knew that he could never be in mortal danger while Jack (John) held the gun (Sig Sauer P226); and Martin kicked up another gear, his long coat (Belstaff Milford) billowing out behind him and they ran on faster and faster, eager to get to the danger, eager to show their brilliance, eager to solve their latest case ... and the dream began to dissolve and Martin groaned as he realised that he was starting to wake. He breathed deeply, trying to burrow back into the dream but it was gone and he was left with nothing but blankness behind his eyelids. He lay there for a while, not understanding the sense of loss, then reluctantly he opened his eyes and realised that somebody had switched the lights back on since he had gone to bed.

Frowning, he turned his head and stared numbly at the man who was sitting in the armchair beside the bed and beaming at him happily.

"Hallo, Skip," said Arthur.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Please heed/revisit Warnings and Disclaimer at the beginning of Chapter 1.**_

**Chapter 3**

Martin couldn't breathe properly and his eyes were so wide that they hurt as he stared in utter shock at the man beside his bed.

"It's _really_ good to see you," Arthur told him happily.

Inside Martin's head there was a grating noise, sounding like massive rusty bolts sliding shut inside the imaginary door which had been crashing open and closed on him for so long. He had still never visualised the door, nor had he been able to find it in the Mind Palace which Mr. Gregory had helped him to build but despite the pain that its slamming had been causing him, the feeling of it locking itself shut filled him with dread.

"You all right, Skip?" Arthur asked.

"What are you ...? How did you ...? _Arthur_?" Martin asked faintly.

"Yeah, it's really me!" the steward smiled. "We've been trying to get in to see you for ages but the hospital staff wouldn't let us. But I really _really_ wanted to visit, so Douglas came up with a plan for us to get in over the wall. It was _ever_ such a high wall, Skip, but Douglas boosted me up – but then I couldn't pull him up behind me." He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. "He's a bit heavier than I thought – I think he's been eating too much of the cheese tray since he's had it to himself."

He smiled cheerily and his voice returned to its normal volume. "He had to wait outside in the end 'cause I didn't dare try and open the gate in case anyone spotted us, so I came in on my own. And _look_ at you, Skipper! You look _brilliant_!"

"Arthur ..." Martin still couldn't get a breath. "This isn't possible."

"Yes it is!" the steward told him. "I'm really good at not being noticed when I want to, so I just sneaked in." He looked proud of himself. "I'd even invented a name in case anyone asked me who I was, 'cause you know I'm not good at making one up on the spot, but no-one even saw me!"

"You're not ... real," Martin faltered.

Arthur's face fell. "Oh, Martin," he said sadly. "What have they done to you?"

"You don't exist. You're not real. _Douglas_ isn't real."

"Well, of _course_ Douglas is real," Arthur told him. "He's waiting outside! How else could I have got over the wall if he hadn't helped me? I'd never have got in on my own."

"But they told me ... You can't be ... He _proved_ it!" Martin said desperately.

"Poor Martin," Arthur said sympathetically. "That horrid psychologist has told you all sorts of fibs, hasn't he? He's got you all confused and now you don't know _what's_ true. He's told you that me and Mum and Douglas don't exist, and he wants you to think that you're not really a pilot and that GERTI isn't a real plane, and that Wendy isn't your mum."

His face became serious. "But it's _so_ much more complicated than that, Martin," he said. "I'm going to tell you the _real_ truth – and you know how bad I am at telling lies, so it _must_ be the truth, mustn't it?"

Standing up and stepping closer to the bed, he reached into his back pocket and took out a small mirror. He handed it to Martin, their fingers touching for a moment, and Martin gasped at the contact. Arthur smiled sadly. "Yes, I'm real, Skip. So maybe I'm _not_ a figment of your imagination. Now, look at yourself."

Martin lifted the mirror with shaking fingers and looked at his reflection.

"Look," Arthur said quietly. "The hair. You saw it before, and it's still there. Dark at the top, even though you've never dyed it. Hair doesn't change colour, does it? I mean, I know you've been through a lot lately, but shock doesn't make your hair go dark. So how can that be possible? These people in the hospital have been telling you that you're not really Martin Crieff, but here _I_ am proving that you _are_ Martin – but you don't have red hair. None of it makes sense, does it?"

Inside his Mind Palace, Martin could feel the rooms into which he had locked his family and friends moving forward from the depths of the structure and sliding towards the front entrance. The locks on the doors were bigger than he had previously imagined them and the keys were prominent, jutting towards him and urging him to turn them. He looked at Theresa's room wistfully. He _so_ wanted to see her one more time and his hand lifted and reached towards it, but then Jack's face superimposed itself over the doorway, looking at him pleadingly and shaking his head. Martin turned to his mother's room but the face of Mrs Henson – someone he had only met once – appeared on the wooden panels, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue as she looked at him sadly. Frantically, Martin looked at Simon's room. Surely his brother could help him? But when he reached for the key Mr. Gregory stepped in front of the door, leaned on his umbrella and looked at him sternly. Martin snatched his hand back and whined, bewildered and afraid.

"You've lost your mind," Arthur said softly, sitting down in the armchair again. "You've got no idea what's real and what isn't. They'll _never_ let you fly again. You can't even remember how to fly GERTI, can you?"

He gently took the mirror from Martin's hands and put it on the bedside cabinet, then reached into his pocket and took out a small bottle. "I'm sorry you've been through all this, Skip," he said. "It's not fair, but you'll never get out of here, and you'll never know what really happened to you. You don't want to spend the rest of your life this confused and frightened, do you?"

Patting his arm sympathetically, he held out the bottle towards him. "Five of these will be enough," he said quietly. "No pain – you'll just go to sleep."

Martin stared at him numbly.

"I'm so sorry, Martin," Arthur continued. "I don't want you to die, but it's for the best. I'll always remember you. You were the best skipper in the world, and I loved flying with you. But you need to let go now. Leave us with happy memories of you, and get away from all this horrid confusion. You can fly forever in your dreams. It'll be brilliant."

"Arthur ..." Martin said shakily.

"Just take them, Martin," Arthur urged him softly. "It's the only way out of here." His eyes were locked onto Martin's and his voice was hypnotic and impossible to resist. Martin reached out and took the bottle.

"I'll stay with you," Arthur told him. "I'll stay with you right to the end. You don't have to be scared. You're not alone."

Trembling, Martin unscrewed the lid of the bottle while Arthur poured a glass of water and held it out to him. Martin tipped out the capsules onto the blanket and stared at them.

"Here you are, Skip," Arthur said, and Martin took the glass and picked up one of the capsules. Slowly he began to raise it to his mouth, then winced as his internal door rattled violently in its frame, struggling against the bolts holding it closed. His left hand jerked convulsively and splashed some of the water onto the blanket, and the fingers holding the pill shook as he waited for the gunshot that never came. Despairingly, his eyes turned to meet Arthur's.

"Be brave," his friend told him.

Martin put the capsule into his mouth, then sipped from the glass and swallowed. He picked up a second one and gazed miserably at Arthur, who gave him an encouraging nod.

"Fly safe, Skip," he said.

Martin began to move the pill towards his mouth, but then Arthur's head lifted and he rose to his feet and looked towards the door, his entire demeanour changing in an instant. Martin stared at him, shocked. He would never have imagined that he could look so different. His gaze was sharp; he looked intelligent and very aware of everything around him. His stance matched his face. This wasn't the friendly and slightly dopey airline steward who Martin thought he had known for years; this was a man ready for anything, and woe betide anybody who got in his way.

"You might as well come in," he called out in a harsh voice that sounded nothing like Arthur's gentle tones. "I can hear you _existing_ out there."

A card swiped through the door and Jack cautiously took a couple of steps into the room. "Evening," he said calmly.

"What's in your hand?" Arthur asked, nodding toward Jack's left arm which was obscured behind the edge of the door.

Jack shrugged. "Didn't have time to fetch my gun," he said casually, walking deeper into the room and revealing the broom he was holding.

Arthur snorted. "Put it down, dear," he said, simultaneously backing closer to Martin. "I can snap his neck before you get any nearer."

Martin dropped the glass onto the bed. He was now so confused and afraid that he didn't even notice the water soaking into his bedding as Jack reluctantly laid the broom on the floor and stepped away from it.

"What gave me away?" Arthur asked curiously.

"You should have brought your own drugs instead of raiding the medicine cupboard," Jack told him. "We figured you would turn up eventually, so our security staff ..." he rolled his eyes slightly to express his opinion of their recent proficiency, "... as well as the hospital staff are under instruction to report anything untoward. One of the nurses just finished an hourly check and told me that the bottle was missing."

"But you didn't stop me getting in, did you?" Arthur asked smugly. "I'm surprised you don't have cameras in this room."

"What, and run the risk of you hacking into them and filming him?" Jack said scornfully. "Hardly likely. And we figured that if you _were_ planning a visit, you'd manage to disable them without us getting suspicious. We just hoped that ..." his eyes flickered towards Martin, "... Mr. Gregory's people would be more efficient at spotting a stranger breaking in in the first place."

"Ah, yes, dear _Mr. Gregory_," Arthur said with a smirk. "How is he?"

"He's fine," Jack said. "He's really looking forward to meeting you."

"I bet he is," Arthur preened. "I'm going to have to disappoint him, though."

He glanced at Martin, then grinned at Jack. "Didn't manage to get him back, then."

"It's a work in progress," Jack shrugged. "But why a pilot? Why did you decide to make him think he was a pilot?"

"Putting him in a crashing plane and filming his demise was always going to make good telly," Arthur said. He smiled proudly. "Good plan, don't you think? Did you like the little touch with the red hair?"

"Oh, excellent," Jack said sarcastically. "But your plan failed, so what are you doing here?"

Arthur's expression became grim. "He killed my boss," he said. "You don't think he's allowed to get away with that, do you?"

"Your boss killed _himself_," Jack said sternly. He pointed towards Martin. "_He_ didn't do it."

"Of course he did," Arthur snapped, and Martin flinched both at the viciousness of his glare and at the revelation that – just as he had feared – his real self had a terrifying history. "And just because your man was rescued in time, I was hardly going to just let him go, was I? He still has to die for what he did. I was hoping for a larger audience but unfortunately nobody but you will see it now."

Martin let out a groan. Arthur smirked down at him.

"I'll get to you in a minute, dear," he said, then straightened up and cracked the knuckles on his right hand as he looked at Jack. "So," he said cheerfully, "shall we get started?"

"Or you could just leave," Jack suggested, his stance becoming more alert. Martin gaped at him. He didn't look like a hospital orderly any more. He looked like a fighter.

"Oh yeah, I could do that," Arthur said casually, then abruptly hurled himself across the room. Despite his speed, Jack met his assault readily and the two of them struggled with each other, trading blows and kicks. Martin slid lower in the bed, terrified and confused and unable to believe what was happening. For some time neither of the men could gain the upper hand but then they crashed into the side of the bed and Arthur threw himself forward, pinning Jack down on top of Martin's legs. Gasping, Martin tried to pull himself free and Arthur lifted his head and grinned at him, his smile venomous and horrifying.

"Soon, dear," he told him.

"Always the bully, eh, Bambi?" Jack snapped.

Martin flinched against the internal sound of the rusty bolts grating while the door rattled frantically. Arthur frowned down at Jack, who took advantage of his momentary confusion and brought his left leg up, jamming his knee ferociously into his side and forcing him to loosen his grip, which gave Jack the opportunity to get his knee under the man's body and lever him upwards. Arthur jumped upright, pulling his opponent with him and swinging him round to throw him violently against the door. The impact drove the air from Jack's lungs and he slumped forward, and Arthur seized his head with both hands and slammed it back against the door before twisting around and hurling him to the floor. Jack landed heavily and Arthur kicked him viciously in the side. Jack coughed and curled up around the pain and Arthur kicked him again and again, and eventually Jack slumped sideways, barely conscious. Arthur straightened up and looked across the room to Martin.

"Ready?" he asked.

Terrified, Martin scrambled out of the other side of the bed and managed to totter to the far corner of the room before his knees gave out under him and he slid down to sit on the floor, curling up tightly and hugging himself.

"Aww, come on, Skip," the man said in the cheery voice of the air steward, "don't be scared of me."

And for a moment, Martin _wasn't_ afraid. He raised his head and looked at the smile of his friendly colleague who was holding out a hand to him as if to help him up. Unable to stop himself, he began to raise his own hand but then Jack, his face contorted in a rictus of pain, uncurled his body and grabbed at Arthur's feet, pulling his legs out from under him and sending him tumbling to the floor. Roaring with fury, Arthur rolled onto his back and pulled his feet free, kicking out at his opponent. Jack slid out of his way and Arthur climbed swiftly to his feet. Jack lay and watched him warily but Arthur stood still, breathing heavily but grinning down at him. After a moment he deliberately took a step backwards, then opened his hands on either side of his body with the palms towards Jack before twitching his fingers in a provocative, 'Come on, then,' invitation.

Jack levered himself to his feet and leaped forward, and Arthur immediately feinted towards Martin. Jack swerved to intercept him but the change of direction threw him off balance and Arthur stepped aside, grabbed his arm and punched him savagely in the face before hurling himself forward and bundling him to the floor again. He followed him down and landed on top of him, kneeling on his torso and trapping his arms under him. Jack tried to knee him in the back but Arthur slid downwards to prevent further movement, then wrapped his hands around his neck and began to throttle him.

"That's your weakness right there," he snarled triumphantly. "Always wanting to protect others, and especially him."

He grinned as Jack writhed helplessly underneath him. "But he's already dead. He just hasn't stopped breathing yet. You can't save him this time." Increasing the pressure on his throat, his voice filled with sarcasm. "If it's going to make you unhappy watching him die, you'd better go first, Doctor Watson."

'_Doctor Watson.'_ The door in Martin's mind struggled to wrench itself open, the bolts creaking with the strain. He stared at Jack, unable to move, unable to do anything to help his friend whose face was flushing a deeper red as he suffocated. Jack turned his eyes towards Martin and locked his gaze on him.

'_He's dying,'_ Martin realised and as if in response, Jack's voice sounded in his mind.

'_Please, God, let me live.'_

_Let me live ... let me live ... let me live._ As the phrase echoed in Martin's mind, the bolts holding his internal door shut drew back sharply and a crash of pain thudded through his head as the door flew open and smashed against the wall before slamming closed again; and now at last Martin began actually to _see_ it. Its panels were painted a deep black, and there were three doorbells on the right-hand door jamb, and then a brass door knocker slowly phased onto the door, gradually becoming more and more solid and visible; and then a set of brass numbers appeared one after the other above the knocker ...

2 ... 2 ... 1 ... B

... and finally the door was clear in his mind and this time instead of bursting open, it slowly swung on its hinges until it rested against the wall and revealed the hallway behind it. It was dark in the hall and Martin couldn't see a thing but then Jack ... _John_ was there, standing just inside the door, reaching for the light switch and turning it on. Light flooded into the hallway and Sherlock blinked in the sudden brightness and squinted up the staircase in front of him. Although he couldn't see it, he knew exactly the layout of the floor above and he could _feel_ the door opposite the stairs beginning to open. Inside the living room behind the door, information buzzed around like a swarm of bees, angry at their confinement and full of indignation about being locked away and deserted for so long in a small space after being used to much more luxurious rooms in the Mind Palace. As the door opened wider the information bees gathered together and flew through the gap, racing down the stairs, pouring into his head and then swarming around frenetically inside his mind. The pain was tremendous and Sherlock clutched his head and groaned as each information bee competed for his attention, desperate to be heard, contemplated, catalogued and properly filed in the Mind Palace. He could _feel_ their indignation as they swirled around, each one buzzing loudly in a bid to make him notice it first, clamouring for the proper appreciation.

Staring across the hospital room, Sherlock realised that John's struggles were becoming weaker. He knew he must _do_ something but the information bees were _so_ distracting and he just couldn't _think_ ... until the baritsu bee surged angrily forward, forcing all the others to retreat a little. 'Don't sit there!' it buzzed loudly. 'Save him! You _know_ how to save him!'

Sherlock's gaze skimmed rapidly around the room, looking for a weapon as he realised that he was too physically weak to pull Arthur off his friend.

'In the corner!' hummed the baritsu bee while rapidly teaching him the moves which he had forgotten, and Sherlock tensed his legs and surged up and forward in one smooth movement, lunging across the room and dropping to one knee to snatch up the broom. Arthur was already releasing John and rising to meet the new danger but Sherlock was faster, pushing himself to his feet and swinging the broom handle viciously round to slam it against the side of his head. As Arthur reeled from the blow, Sherlock shifted his grip and jammed the end of the handle into his solar plexus. Arthur's breath left him in a pained wheeze as he stumbled back and Sherlock followed him, stepping over John while simultaneously drawing back the broom before he whirled it around and up and then lashed it down onto the top of Arthur's head. The man fell to his knees, blood trickling down his forehead. He peered up at Sherlock and his face morphed back into that of the harmless airline steward.

"Skip," he whined plaintively.

"The only captain in the room is behind me," Sherlock told him, then he spun in a circle and rapidly brought the broom handle round with all the strength he could exert. It shattered against the side of his opponent's head, splinters flying in all directions, and the man who had never been Arthur Shappey slumped down and was still.

Looking down at him for a moment to ensure that he was fully unconscious and not faking it, Sherlock dropped to his knees to check John who clutched at his arm panting and coughing before he eventually managed to croak weakly, "Taking him down with a _broom_? That's the most ridiculous thing you've ever done."

"At least I didn't invade Afghanistan," Sherlock replied immediately.

John choked out a giggle, then his expression changed to one of panic when Sherlock sagged sideways, slumping off his knees and onto his backside as dizziness struck him. John struggled into a sitting position and grabbed his arms.

"How many pills did you take?"

Sherlock stared at him, the annoyed and demanding information bees still taking up most of his attention. John shook him roughly.

"Sherlock! Martin! How many pills did you take?"

"Don't call me Martin," Sherlock said in irritation. "And I only took one."

"Oh, thank Christ," John breathed, sinking back down to lie on the floor and pressing a hand to his side where Arthur – or whatever his name was – had kicked him. With his other hand he took out his phone, hit a speed dial and demanded back-up in Room 221 immediately.

Sherlock felt exhausted. The information bees were matching his tiredness, sulkily quietening their attention-seeking buzzing and hovering down to land on a leather sofa inside his mind. Even though it didn't seem possible, the bees were definitely pouting as they realised that they weren't going to get back to their correct places in the Mind Palace any time soon. As one, they flounced round on the sofa and petulantly turned their backs on him.

John lowered his phone and propped himself up on his elbows, looking across to Sherlock while simultaneously keeping a wary eye on the unconscious man behind him.

"Just prove to me how much you're back, please," he requested hoarsely, still breathing heavily. "What's your name?"

"You've already _called_ me by my name," Sherlock pointed out.

"_Full_ name, you twit."

Sherlock sighed. "Sherlock Holmes," he said exaggeratedly. It felt good to speak his own name again.

"Middle name?"

"I don't have one."

"What's your date of birth?"

"The sixth of January nineteen seventy-six."

"Home address?"

Sherlock sighed again.

"_Indulge_ me," John said sternly.

"Two two one B Baker Street, London W1."

"Full post code?"

"No idea," Sherlock told him.

"What's your sister's name?"

Sherlock smirked. "He may behave like the Queen sometimes, but my _brother's_ name is Mycroft." His face became serious and he grimaced in exasperation. "_Damn_ – he's been the one treating me all this time. He'll never let me hear the end of it."

"Who's the Prime Minister?" John persisted.

"Not a clue," Sherlock said after a moment's thought. "Does it matter?"

John grinned. "Oh, you're _definitely_ back," he said happily, and sank down onto the floor again. A moment later he lifted his head.

"How much do you remember of the past weeks?"

Sherlock frowned. "All of it since I've been here," he said, "though I'm fuzzy on what happened _before_ I arrived at the hospital."

"We'll explain everything later," John told him, "but not now. That pill you took is going to kick in any time. It won't do you any harm on its own, but you'll sleep for hours."

"I don't really mind," Sherlock said tiredly. "At least it's keeping the bees quiet."

"Okay ..." John said cautiously.

"I'll explain that later, too," Sherlock said, already resolving never to mention the information bees again. He yawned.

"Let's get you to bed," John said, grimacing as he tried to sit up. Sherlock stumbled to his feet, ignoring John's protest and wobbling dangerously for a few seconds before he caught his balance. Then he reached down and held out a hand to his friend, who took it but put as little pressure on it as possible while pulling himself upwards. When he was upright, he stood breathing heavily for a moment, still clinging to Sherlock's hand and bracing himself on his shoulder with his other hand.

Inside Sherlock's head, one of the information bees drowsily buzzed a short phrase which he recognised immediately. It seemed appropriate to the current situation.

"Got your breath back?" Sherlock asked as the sound of hurrying footsteps began to approach along the corridor.

John's grin was all the reply he needed.

* * *

_The End._

_**... Or maybe Not**__._

Get your own breath back, then head to the coda!


	4. Coda

Outside the wall of the hospital grounds, the man looked at his watch. Although there was no activity inside the grounds and everything remained quiet, the fact that his boss hadn't yet returned meant that he had almost definitely been compromised.

It was time to put Phase 2 into action.

He lifted his radio to contact his operatives inside the hospital.

"Operation Birling Day is go," announced Douglas Richardson.

* * *

_The End._

_Definitely__._

* * *

Author's Note

When my plotbunny first shoved this idea into my head several months ago, I stared into her innocent furry face and asked in disbelief, "You want me to write _what_?! Are you mad?! You want me to deny the existence of everyone from _'Cabin Pressure'_ and make Arthur – _Arthur Shappey_ – the Big Bad?! Are you _trying_ to get me killed to death by angry readers?" She coolly met my gaze, then waved a dismissive paw and said, "Write it, bitch," before turning away and going back to canoodling with one of my teddy bears.

Thinking that I knew the perfect person to help me, I emailed Verity Burns and told her the general gist of the story. Totally unhelpfully she replied that she loved the idea. This was not what I needed to hear _at all_.

Then I thought of Chocolamousse. She doesn't like her favourite characters going through bad things, and she loves shipping them, so surely _she_ would disapprove of this idea with lots of bad things and no (well, barely any) (well, maybe a bit of) ship, and would talk me out of writing it. By now I had reluctantly started plotting out the storyline and had already written an _eight-page_ synopsis. I _never_ write synopses – if the story doesn't come into my mind with the basic structure fully formed, it stays in my head until it's in better shape. But I had thumped out this massive synopsis, so I sent it to Chocola with a "Look at this – it's a terrible idea, isn't it?" message.

She wrote back with loads of ideas of how to improve it.

Damn. This was _not_ the kind of help I had been seeking. What the hell was the matter with my idiot friends?!

_Mirith_! Mirith Griffin would save me! She _had_ to save me! Because despite the ever-expanding synopsis, I still didn't want to write this angsty painful story which only about six people would read, and _someone_ had to talk me out of it. I sent the document off to her and sat back, confident of getting a reply along the lines of, "Good grief, woman, what are you _thinking_?! Step away from the bunny, step away from the computer, go to your room and _think_ about the ridiculousness of what you're planning here."

Instead, she said she was looking forward to seeing the story done, and added a ton of advice about certain aspects which she thought I really _shouldn't_ include in their current format, together with suggestions of how to change them.

I have No Friends.

But despite them being absolutely _No Help At All_ in putting off my demented plotbunny, my eternal grateful thanks go to Verity, Mirith and Chocola for all their suggestions, encouragement and improvements. In particular Verity invented a much better major plot point than I had done regarding what Bambi was planning for Sherlock once he had been turned into Martin, and came up with the 'promise of love, pain of loss, joy of redemption' explanation of why Bambi gave Martin a princess girlfriend (when I was about to take the princess girlfriend out of the story altogether). She also made the oh-so-obvious-but-I-didn't-think-of-it suggestion that John should take the name 'Jack' (your humble idiot of an author was going to call him 'Jeremy' [*cringes at the memory*]), stopped me from making Martin into far too much of a wimp, and then carefully betaed the whole monstrosity. Twice. Chocola came up with the idea that Mr. Gregory should give Martin a laptop to prove that he was telling the truth, and made other superb suggestions including the 'I'm a tea lady, not your housekeeper' and the 'invade Afghanistan' lines. And additionally and essentially, if it hadn't been for Mirith's careful reading of the finished draft and her diplomatic pointers on how _not_ to treat a psychiatric patient, even more readers would have been angrily throwing things at the screen regardless of the disclaimer at the beginning. Oh, and she also taught me how to spell "Oi".

Sorry about the coda. It came to me ages after I'd finished the story, and was the result of me idly thinking about how this was an unusual style for me, pointing out the plot twist so early on and having the readers one step ahead of at least one of the characters, with no twist at the end. Apparently my plotbunny latched on to my thoughts and promptly had an "ooh!" moment. It didn't really surprise me. She doesn't like a straightforward happy ending.

I didn't show the coda to anyone before publishing it. So Verity, Mirith and Chocola will probably be in the front of the queue of people wanting to kill me with sticks.

But I giggled evilly to myself when, half an hour after writing the coda, I realised the full significance of calling Phase 2 'Operation Birling Day'. After all, what's the main point of Birling Day? Answer: stealing the Talisker. So _who_ is the Talisker here? Is it Sherlock or Bambi? Mwah-ha-ha-ha ...

Can I just make it clear right now: There will not be a sequel. You know my methods: finish it on a cliffhanger and leave the reader to decide what happens next.

Finally, my sort-of apologies to the writer formerly known as Danlef but who has now taken the username squire on AO3, who published an awesome multi-chapter _Sherlock/Star Trek Into Darkness_ crossover fic called _You should have let him sleep_ during June and July while I was still in the planning stages of _Initially_. When I finally got round to reading her completed story on the train over the course of a few days it had me severely head-desking (which is not easy on a train that has no desks), because the themes of her and my stories were so painfully similar that I seriously wondered whether to ditch mine. Then I comforted myself with the 'great minds think alike' concept and I just hope nobody thinks that I was in any way plagiarising her idea. 'Cause I honestly wasn't.

Or maybe she owns my plotbunny's twin sister?

In which case, she has my sympathies.


End file.
